


Worship

by Bazylia_de_Grean



Series: Pilgrim's Crown [10]
Category: Pillars of Eternity
Genre: F/M, Gen, PoE Inktober
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-30 02:46:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17215556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bazylia_de_Grean/pseuds/Bazylia_de_Grean
Summary: She knows he has to lead prayers and ceremonies, knows many of his duties just as well as he does. But she cannot comprehend why he would also pray in the privacy of his rooms when he does not – cannot – truly believe in the gods.





	Worship

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Ranna for beta-reading!
> 
> (PoE inktober, prompt 7: Worship)

The scent of incense slowly fills the room, as tendrils of smoke coil around Thaos’ silhouette. It makes him look otherworldly, eerie…

Deòiridh shudders involuntarily. Nothing makes her more aware how different they are, that the gap between them is ages-wide and impossible to bridge; when he lights the incense and looks through the smoke at something she has only seen in pieces – cracked image shards; when he looks back in time to where she cannot go.

Even now, when she knows the truth, he would not tell her all. He leaves her guessing – and that broken mosaic she could glimpse sometimes – she sleeps in his chamber every night now, so that he could make sure she will not see more – it is enough to give her nightmares. She is grateful that he shields her from gaining more knowledge, even if her wellbeing is the least of his concern in the matter.

He will forget her quickly, she knows. What is she compared to his holy quest, to Woedica’s glory? Just a tiny spark – a candle, at best – next to a firestorm that consumed the world.

Thaos turns slowly, his musings interrupted by her thoughts. There is a distant look in his eyes – his mind and soul are still elsewhere. Without a word, he walks over to the bed and lies down beside her.

Deòiridh does not dare speak. She knows Thaos the teacher, Thaos the high priest, even Thaos the Grand Inquisitor; she thought she also knew Thaos when he is just _himself_ – as much as his mission and his goddess ever allow him to be. But this man, holding her in his arms now, is a stranger. She guesses – senses things – she could decipher much more, but she does not want to – that is why he lets her stay.

Thaos kisses her temple – a habit more than a sign of affection – and his nose brushes against the top of her head. He inhales, slowly, carefully, as if the smell of pilgrim’s crown could ground him in the present. Maybe it can. Perhaps that is why he always comes back to her; perhaps incense alone is too suffocating.

She immediately scolds herself for that thought, but Thaos only strokes her hair, gently sifting it between his fingers. He does not speak – but she is grateful for that, too. Those moments of silence just before sleep – that is the only, brief time when he is truly hers, when there is no one else in his thoughts because he does not think, just breathes.

Deòiridh is the one thinking. She knows he has to lead prayers and ceremonies, knows many of his duties just as well as he does. But she cannot comprehend why he would also pray in the privacy of his rooms when he does not – _cannot_ – truly believe in the gods. He does have _faith_ , she can see that much clearly – but it is grim and determined and nothing like that bright, comforting light he showed her years ago.

“Do you… worship?” she asks in a whisper so quiet he could ignore it if he wanted.

His cheek moves against hers as he nods. “You could say that.” Not even words, just another breath.

“But… the gods… why?”

Thaos pulls away, taking her face in his hands, and she immediately regrets her question.

“I’m sorry,” she mutters, not daring to meet his eyes. “I know it’s not for me to know.”

Gently, he tilts her chin up, until she has no choice but to look at him. He is not angry, just searches her gaze – soul – for a moment. “You’re afraid of me,” he says slowly.

“No.” Deòiridh shakes her head. “I just… don’t know you. Not when you do that. When…” She breaks off, at a loss for words. There is something terrifying about him in those moments, yes; yet it is not fear that paralyses her.

Thaos’ expression softens a little, a barely perceptible shift that transforms his whole face. “I am sorry,” he mutters, leaning in, and presses his lips to her forehead; a real kiss, this time. “I didn’t know you can feel it.” A mirthless, scornful smile twists his mouth – he is irritated at himself. “I should have; you have told me as much. But I was certain it was nothing more than one brief vision.”

“Feel what?” she asks, in a small voice. And then it dawns on her.

_That_ is how he feels the entire time? No, she realises immediately, no; _that_ is how he would feel if he _allowed_ himself, if he could, if he did not always keep his focus on the path ahead. He never looks back… but sometimes he slows down and pauses, stops for long enough to realise that he never left the past behind, that he carries it within his soul – a desolate place; a void that, if he allowed himself, would be filled by…

His thoughts stop hers, abruptly but gently.

“I do not worship,” Thaos says quietly. His eyes are two empty wells. “I honour the dead.”


End file.
